Taking in Strays
by Can'tStopImagining
Summary: Nicky looks like wild fire caught in a hurricane. Lorna's never been able to resist a stray. Nicky/Lorna (AU).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Here I am again posting a new story when I haven't updated any of my multi-chapters yet... and this is another multi-chapter, doh! I just wanted to try something different. This is a pre-prison AU, or rather an AU where neither of our girls end up in Litchfield, but still end up meeting (cos I'm totally into that whole fate thing). I hope it isn't too confusing. I wanted something that wasn't angst ridden for once.

* * *

><p>"Ayyyy fuck you too, Manny! Chose a great time to fucking grow a pair!" Nicky yells hoarsely after the car that's just deposited her heavily on the sidewalk, and is quickly disappearing around a corner.<p>

It's just beginning to get light out, the streetlamps casting an almost redundant orange glow across the dirty asphalt, littered in old take-out containers and flyers ranging from band promotion to xxx-chatlines. Nicky doesn't remember what time she left home, but it was still light. She doesn't even really remember how she wound up at Manny's, let alone in his car, being thrown out onto an unfamiliar street corner on a side of town miles away from her loft in Manhattan.

"Oh my god, are you alright?"

She cranes her neck up in the direction of the voice, realizing too late that even such a small movement is going to send a rush of pain through her body, and squints at the tiny dark haired woman who is staring at her from the front steps of a house, dressed in a bathrobe, and fluffy rabbit slippers.

"I'm great," Nicky says, forcing herself into a seated position, grimacing at the wave of nausea that hits her, "just great. If you could tell me where the fuck I am, I would be even better."

Rather than just give her the directions, as Nicky had hoped, the figure in the doorway instead hurries down the front steps, almost tripping over her ridiculous footwear, and comes to a stop right beside Nicky.

"I'm not sure you should be goin' anywhere on account of the fact you were just tossed out a car," she says, and her voice is this awful mix of Brooklyn and New Jersey that grates on Nicky's already building headache, but at the same time is oddly attractive, and Nicky shakes the thought, concentrates on trying to stand.

She isn't entirely annoyed when tiny hands push her back against the sidewalk. Her head's rushing and her limbs are aching and okay yeah maybe moving right now isn't the greatest of ideas.

"Let me call you an ambulance?"

Nicky thinks she would laugh if it weren't for the pain it would cause her, "no thanks. I'm fine."

"Then I'll drive you someplace," the girl says, and her fingers are already smoothing back Nicky's hair, pressing against the trickle of blood that's making its way down her forehead, "to a hospital," she says, and Nicky turns to glare at her, but something about the softness in her eyes catches Nicky off guard.

"I don't need to go to a hospital I just need to get the fuck out of here."

The brunette stares at her, her lips forming a small pout, and her eyebrows pulling together, "do you ever say anythin' without cursing?"

It's a fair point but not something Nicky is used to getting pulled up on, certainly not by a stranger, and she suddenly feels like a child being scolded by a teacher (not a mother; that's not a feeling she's familiar with, not until recent years anyway), but the teacher is 5ft tall and pouting like a toddler.

"What's your name, kid?" she says, deciding that there's something about this girl's attitude that she likes, something that tells her that in any other situation, she'd be trying to get into her pants.

"Anita," the girl says, distractedly, still staring at the cut across Nicky's forehead, and Nicky tries the name out on her lips, doesn't quite think it suits her.

"Nicky," she says, "I'd shake your hand, but I can't feel my fingers,"

Anita tuts, lifting her hand and running her fingers lightly over the individual bones, and Nicky tries her best not to grimace as pain shoots up her arm. She really fucking hopes nothing's broken because she can't stand hospitals, and a plastered up arm is going to do nothing for her image. _Manny better hope nothing's broken or I'll kick his ass_, she thinks, but the idea of kicking _anything_ right now is ridiculous.

"If you ain't gonna let me take you to a hospital, at least let me get some anti-septic for that graze on your head, and take you home."

She can see that there's no way this is gonna end without her agreeing to some form of help so, reluctantly, she nods, "deal."

* * *

><p>She winds up in the passenger seat of a beat up Kia with a Disney Princess band-aid on her forehead.<p>

It's got to be in the running for the worst night of Nicky's life, and to make it even worse, Anita is insisting on singing along to show tunes on the car stereo. If her head wasn't already pounding, an entirely out of tune rendition of The Sound of fucking Music would certainly have done the trick. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Nicky spends the entire car ride clinging to the seat with her good hand, whilst the girl drives recklessly around corners, barely looks at the road, and brakes half a second later than a normal person _every damn time_.

"So, is there gonna be someone at home to take care of you?" she chirps, as one song comes to an end and another one starts. Her slippers are on the back seat, replaced with a pair of sensible black pumps. Not that you can tell from her driving.

Nicky grunts. With some reluctance she's given the girl Red's address because even Nicky Nichols is willing to admit defeat when it comes to carrying her bruised body up four flights of stairs, and the telling off she's going to receive from Red is nothing in comparison. Red always jokes that she should make her a 'if lost, return to:' label for some of her heavier nights. Tonight's definitely been one of them.

"Y'know head wounds are pretty dangerous. I'd feel awfully guilty if you blacked out or somethin' and died."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," Nicky says, rolling her eyes, "don't worry; someone will be home."

That seems to appease her because she stops asking questions. Nicky shifts in her seat to stare out the window, watching the unfamiliar slowly fade out as they move into her local territory.

"Can I smoke in here?" she says after a moment, and she isn't even remotely surprised when Anita turns to look at her, disregarding the road _yet again._

"No. And I don't think all that smoke will do your body any good in it's current condition anyhow."

She sighs, but leaves her pack of smokes in her breast pocket anyway. If nothing else, contorting her body to retrieve them is probably going to hurt like a bitch and it isn't worth the effort.

* * *

><p>Lorna has no idea why she lies. She has no idea why she does a lot of things lately. The words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them. It's a compulsion. Similarly, getting attached to complete strangers seems to be becoming a habit.<p>

When she was a child, she used to bring home strays. That was how they wound up with a big white rabbit who hated everyone and everything, and a skinny cat that needed feeding four times a day. They were the only friends she'd had when she was little. Whilst Franny was out playing with the older kids, making out with boys behind the bike shed, Lorna was at home playing animal hospital.

Maybe she never grew out of it.

There's something about this latest 'stray' that she finds fascinating, though. She's completely different from the strangers Lorna's normally drawn to; the guy at the grocery store with the lopsided smile and the bright blue eyes, the guy in the mail office who is never seen without a sweater and perfectly trimmed hair. Nicky looks like wild fire caught in a hurricane. Lorna's never seen anything like it, never believed she'd have any interest in someone who looks so destructive. But, here she is, driving her home, and trying to pretend that it's only being a good samaritan that's lead her to this point.

"Hey, Anita, do you ever look at the road or-?"

She's pulled out of her thoughts by the gruff voice of the woman beside her, and it brings a new kind of panic to her, hearing that name that isn't hers. She pauses, her mouth feeling dry, and forces a smile.

"Uh, it's Lorna," she corrects, wondering for the 5th or 6th time why she was stupid enough to lie about it in the first place, "I'm Lorna."

"Right... you in the habit of lying about your name to complete strangers?"

Lorna wrinkles her nose, shoots Nicky a look, "I don't know – are you in the habit of being thrown out of cars in the middle of the night?"

"Touché," Nicky replies, and Lorna thinks she might already love the smirk that rises on her lips.

"Besides, I didn't wanna get involved if it was some kinda mafia thing..."

Nicky howls at that, laughing so hard she starts to wheeze, "it is _not_ a mafia thing – hey, take a right here,"

"Not a mafia thing, but you're directing me to the Russian part of town," she says, raising her eyebrows, "sounds like a mafia thing to me."

"It's not a fucking mafia thing okay. Manny's a friend, alright?"

Lorna scoffs, "yeah, some friend."

The road opens out into a market area, and they weave through people just starting to set up stalls for the day. Nicky directs Lorna through to a restaurant on one of the corners, and it's dark inside, bar a dim light over the door that illuminates the 'closed' sign that hangs there.

"This the place?" Lorna asks, shutting off the engine.

"Yeah. Look, thanks for the ride. I apologize for landing outside your house in the middle of the night, promise it won't happen again," she goes to open the passenger side door and pauses, grimacing in pain, "holy shit that hurt more than I thought it was going to."

Lorna rolls her eyes, "right, whether you like it or not, I'm gonna be helpin' you up to your door, alright? I don't want this on my conscious."

"Conscience," Nicky says, and Lorna stares at her blankly, "look, whatever, can we just hurry up? Pretty sure there's a bottle of scotch up there waiting for me."

_I think you've had enough_, Lorna thinks, but doesn't say. She's used to spending time with people who drink too much, and there's something about Nicky that is very different from when she's had to deal with her brothers, or her dad and his alcohol-induced tempers. Then again, being thrown out of a car is probably pretty sobering.

She climbs out of the car, moves over to the passenger side, and opens the door. Despite her cocky attitude, when Lorna offers Nicky a hand, she takes it, and together they heave her out of the car and onto wobbly legs. She doesn't refuse the arm that Lorna tucks around her to help her walk either, even grunts a 'thanks' which probably eats into her effortlessly cool image, but makes a smile grow on Lorna's lips. The way this woman feels pressed up against her shouldn't be nice and warm and shouldn't bring a glow to Lorna's cheeks, but it does. Her fingers brush against an expanse of bare skin where her t-shirt doesn't quite meet the top of her jeans, and she suddenly wonders what it would feel like to touch more of her, to let her hands roam over flesh. It's such a foreign thought that Lorna doesn't know what to do with it, so she files it away, decides she'll address it later.

They stumble to the door at the side of the restaurant, and Nicky's gripping her shoulder tightly all the way, only lets go when they've stopped, and Lorna takes it as a cue to untangle herself.

"Do you have a key or-?"

"I have no fucking idea where it is, so I'm gonna go with no," Nicky says, and she goes to knock, but Lorna gently pushes her hand away, noting the grazes on her knuckles, the still aching bones from earlier. She knocks instead, quietly, and then a little louder when nobody comes.

A few minutes later, she hears the sound of footsteps down bare stairs, and someone pulls various locks across, and the door edges open slightly, held closed with a chain, so that only a slither of somebody is visible. Before Lorna can speak, Nicky steps in front of her.

"Hi," she says, and if Lorna isn't mistaken, there's a hint of sheepishness in the way she shifts awkwardly beside her, can't quite keep her eyes on the door.

There's a grumble from the other side, before the door closes, the sound of metal on metal loud in the quiet street, and finally the door opens to reveal a stern-looking older woman with a flash of dark red hair.

"Oh, this better be good," she says, her accent thick and Russian.

"Good to see you too, Ma."

* * *

><p>So, she wasn't exactly expecting Red to welcome her home with open arms, but the string of Russian expletives that leave her lips as she beckons them both in is a bit much. Nicky enjoys the way Lorna's eyebrows raise at the unexpected outburst, the awkward way she fidgets when Red seats her on the couch, how her hands rest uneasily in her lap.<p>

"You high again, off your face like last time?" Red asks, standing in the doorway with a weary expression on her face, her hands on her hips, glaring Nicky down.

"What? No! Ma! I may have had a... _bit_ to drink but I'm fucking clean. You know I don't do that shit anymore. Jesus Christ..."

Nicky's cut short by Red smacking her around the head, and it sends a fresh pain shooting through her in a domino effect, and it hurts so bad she feels like she might throw up, but it passes after a moment.

"Could you cut that out? I feel like I just fucked a bulldozer, I don't need you smacking me about as well."

"You are a stupid little girl," Red says, certainly not for the first time, and then she marches out of the room. When she reappears, she sets an ice pack, a glass of water, and a packet of aspirin down on the table.

"Thank you, Mommy."

Up until now, Red's barely paid any attention to the stranger sitting stiffly on her couch, probably much to Lorna's relief if the look on her face is anything to go by, but as Nicky pops two of the aspirin out of the packet, she turns to the girl who is still wearing her pajamas, and frowns.

"You don't look like one of Nicky's friends," she says, bluntly.

Lorna looks at her with wide eyes, startled, and Nicky can't really blame her; Red is a force to be reckoned with at the best of times. And Lorna seems like a nice girl. She doesn't seem like the kind of person who gets caught up with heroin addicts and scary Russian ladies. Nicky remembers her comment from earlier, about not wanting to get caught up in 'a Mafia thing', and almost chokes on her water as she downs it.

"I, uh, I'm-"

"Ayy, leave her alone. She's the good samaritan who drove me over here, okay? I'm not fucking her, if that's what you're thinking."

She enjoys the way Lorna's eyebrows fly into her hairline and her cheeks flush, simultaneous with the look of disgust that comes across Red's features. Nicky's never been one for beating around the bush; say things as they are. And okay maybe Lorna has learnt more about her in the past five minutes than she needed to, but at the end of the day, she's going to go downstairs, get into her car, and drive off, and Nicky need never see her again, so what does it matter?

* * *

><p>Four days later, and Nicky's ribs still ache every time she takes a breath, her fingers still don't quite feel right, and her head's still thumping on and off all day, but she feels a little less like death. Red, of course, wanted to take her to the hospital, but she refused. Hospitals hold only the worst memories for her. The last time she had wound up in one, it was from a fucking heart infection, and she'd almost died. In fact, when she'd woken up, she'd wished she <em>had, <em>especially when she found her mother at her bedside. Hospitals offer nothing but condescending nurses tutting over her lifestyle choices, refusing to wheel her outside for a cigarette, making appalled faces over her indecent sense of humor. She's better off dosing up on aspirin and getting on with it.

She almost does a double take when she walks into the restaurant and sees the girl sitting at the counter, squeezed into a tight denim dress, her hair up, her face coated in make-up. It doesn't look like the same person _at all_, but when she turns and her face lights up, her fingers waving in Nicky's direction, it's unmistakably her. Frowning, Nicky crosses over to her, frustrated that her usual level of bravado hasn't returned to her yet, and hauls herself up onto the stall beside her.

"Man, I read you completely wrong the other day, huh? You're not a hooker, are you? Cos that dress..."

The brunette's expression changes completely, but eventually she laughs, shakes her head, "no, I ain't. And you seem to be doing a lot better. Or at least your sense of humor is."

"You come all the way over here to check on my sense of humor?" Nicky asks, and she can't help but feel herself smile at the way Lorna's cheeks go pink, the way she looks away.

"Don't flatter yourself; I heard they sell the best peeroshies-"

Chuckling, Nicky corrects her: "pirozhkis. And ayy, they are pretty good, but you should taste what else they've got here."

The signature Nichols side-ways smirk isn't entirely necessary, because Lorna blushes anyway, and Nicky enjoys watching it creep from Lorna's cheeks down her neck as she looks down, away. She knows she's coming on strong, but that's how she plays, and if Lorna wasn't the least bit interested, she wouldn't have come here.

"I should tell you I have a boyfriend, right?" Lorna says, meeting her eyes again.

"I dunno, should you?"

She smiles, "I don't know, but... I do. Have a boyfriend, I mean."

Nicky shrugs, pretends it doesn't bother her. And it shouldn't. She can have whoever she wants, and this isn't the first time she's chased after a straight girl, not the first time she's persuaded a girl to forget her boyfriend for a quick fuck, but somehow this is different. Lorna's different. She doesn't know if it's because she's been clean too long, or because this girl has a name and a personality and isn't just someone she picked up in a bar, but she knows it's different.

"What does he do, this boyfriend of yours?"

"He's in the army," Lorna says quietly, and there's a hint of sadness in her voice that makes Nicky's chest ache.

"Deployed?" she asks, but she doesn't need to hear the answer; it's written all over Lorna's face.

She bobs her head in a nod, and Nicky hates herself for the sense of relief and hope that pricks through her, shakes it off.

"Shit, that sucks," she says, instead, and leaves it at that.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The next chapter is half written so it will be up pretty soon. I so apologize for not updating my other fics. I've got almost-chapters completed for practically all of them, which I will be posting hopefully this week. Thanks for your patience! And I'd love to hear some feedback on this (though I admit I owe a lot of you reviews – I promise I'm working on it).


	2. Chapter 2

Keeping up a lie is never something Lorna's struggled with; if anything, it's her main strength, her party trick. She doesn't do it intentionally, but the words spill out all the same, and once she's concocted a lie, boy does she stick to it. It's kinda terrifying the way the details all knit together in her head, how she reaches a point, after a while, where she can't remember what's true and what isn't. It's not so much that she's good at keeping up the lie, as she lives and breathes that lie, can't distinguish it from the actual truth. And when she remembers that it's all fictitious, late at night, alone in bed in the dark, it's too much to bear, so she forgets again. It's the same vicious cycle that's got her through much of the dark patches in her life.

Still, she can't help but wish she hadn't lied to Nicky. Because, for some reason, lying to her feels like a completely different kind of wrong. But as the weeks go on, the lie goes deeper and deeper until it's a pit of lies that she can't climb out of. Every time she considers it, one of them grabs her by the foot and drags her back down with it.

By the time Lorna gets home, the lights are out, and she has to creep quietly up the front steps and inside so she doesn't wake Franny's rabble of kids. It's unusual for her to stay out late. There's something about Nicky Nichols that she can't tear herself away from, something that makes the hours pass by in the blink of an eye, and she can't say no to spending more and more time with her. It's not even like they _do anything_. They sit and talk for hours. Sometimes it's not even that. Sometimes it's just mutual, comfortable silence, broken only by Nicky laughing at the television, or Lorna barely stifling a yawn. In some ways, that's what makes it so wonderful.

"Where have you been?"

She stops rigid in the hallway, glances at the stairs, and spots her older sister standing there, hands on her hips, looking every bit like the mother figure they've never really had, and Lorna thinks this must be how teenagers feel sneaking into their house long after curfew. She wouldn't know, because she was never that kind of teenager. She offers her sister a bright eyed smile, wonders why she feels so ashamed of herself when she hasn't done anything to be ashamed about.

"Out with a friend," Lorna says, shrugging. She slips her jacket off, hangs it on the hook in the hallway, "not that it's any of your business."

"My baby sister stays out until 1am without telling no one and it ain't any of my business?"

Scoffing, Lorna raises her eyebrows at her, tries to keep her voice low, "I'm twenty six, not twelve! I can do what I want. I am not one of your kids."

"I bet you were out with that fucking mail office guy again, weren't you? I only keep on at you because I'm worried, Lorn. I don't do it cos I wanna baby you, I do it because _I worry_. There's something that ain't right about that guy-"

Lorna scowls at her, "_for your information, _Christopher and I ended things. I was out with a friend and it ain't any of your business who that friend is or what we got up to, now move out of the way."

Franny steps aside, but there's a weary, tired look on her face as Lorna pushes past, and she knows there's only so long that she can keep pushing her away before she gives in and tells her everything.

* * *

><p>They've been playing this weird game of theirs for weeks. Curling up in front of the television, watching hours of trashy TV shows, or old black and white movies that Nicky has to explain the plot to, or sometimes nothing at all. It fills the noisy silence in Nicky's head, anyway, keeps her off the streets. Keeps her clean.<p>

She does have to deal with the occasional long conversations about Lorna's boyfriend, and the guilt that settles in her stomach every time she feels herself starting to get jealous whilst she passionately describes how proud of him she is for doing his bit for his country. She stops herself before she starts to wish he won't come back because that's a whole new level of fucked up and she won't let herself go there.

Manny, the little shit, calls her incessantly, claims she owes him. She owes him shit. He threw her out on the sidewalk like a piece of trash, and drove away. He doesn't need to know that it was one of the best things to happen to her.

He's not the only one of her old friends who keeps calling round though, and eventually she gives in. They're a bad influence, she knows (hears it in Red's voice every time), but at the end of the day, they're her friends, and if nothing else, she's never been able to say no to the liquor they bring with them. So, she ends up in some sleaze ball bar, four sheets to the wind, completely fucked up, arguing with some guy over pool, and then it seems like a good idea to give Lorna a call. Her friends are getting high in a bathroom, and it's taking all her willpower not to join them, and she always ends up horny as fuck when she's drunk, and suddenly the barmaid in the skimpy shorts and crop top isn't doing it for her, isn't what she wants; it's Lorna. And she's dialing the number before she really knows what she's doing.

"Ayyy, Lorna, you comin' out to play?" she slurs, and she goes to lean on a pillar, misses, almost catapults to the floor.

"Nick, it's almost 2am," comes the sleepy, whispered reply.

"All the best things happen after 2am," she insists, smirking, finding her balance, "c'mon, I'll make it worth it. You gotta live while the boyfriend's away, right? Gotta get it while you can."

"You're drunk. I'm goin' back to bed."

"Aww come on, don't be like that," she whines.

"Goodnight Nicky."

"Ayy, come on, come out little Lorna. It'll be fun. I been dreamin' about you for weeks, squirmin' about in my bed, gaspin' my name. Come on."

Lorna doesn't even justify it with a response, and Nicky's met with a dial tone. She slams her phone down on the bar, orders two more shots, and knows she's going to regret that phone call in the morning. That she's already starting to.

In Nicky terms, six weeks before fucking something as important as this up is a long time. An all time best, in fact.

After all, there's a reason all her friends are men.

(Well, except for the girl who lives two apartments down, but she doesn't think what they have really counts as a friendship. She says stupid shit, Nicky laughs, bobs her head and calls out the occasional 'ay, I see you and the rockstar girlfriend are still a thing – or rather, _hear_. Good for you, Blondie' or something along those lines, tries desperately (and only half-jokingly) to get an invitation into their bedroom. But it's not friendship. Not really, anyways).

The only small victory she takes from it is that she stays away from the lure of heroin. It's going on right under her nose, and she still stays away from it. Catches a cab home instead, falls asleep in front of an episode of Wheel of Fortune.

It doesn't make much difference; when she calls Lorna in the morning to apologize, she doesn't answer her phone, and Nicky's mind is much less on her substance abuse willpower, and focussed more on _why the fuck didn't anyone take my phone away_?

It still comes as an alarming shock to her that she _cares_ enough about this girl to be hurt at the prospect of not seeing her ever again. She thinks about putting it down to a fear of rejection. Nobody ever turns down Nicky Nichols, and that's a fact she's worn proudly as a medal of honor for as long as she can remember, so of course she's gonna be a little deflated when someone messes up her winning streak. However, there were plenty of women in that bar who she _could_ have taken, more than willingly, and she still ended up going home alone. So maybe she has to address the fact that it isn't just sex, that something else might be lingering there, dangerously, in the back of her head.

She wants to laugh it off, but she can't. It's such a ridiculous suggestion, but it's beginning to feel more feasible, with every second she spends mulling over what to say to Lorna to make it right again. If nothing else, she has a fucking good time with her, without any of the substances she had to take to bear some of her friends' company, and she's not prepared to give that up.

* * *

><p>Nicky's late night drunken call makes Lorna's skin crawl with bad memories.<p>

The fact that she actually considers going to her, however, is probably the most terrifying part of it all. She bundles herself up in her duvet, curls up in a tiny ball, and tries to pretend that the thoughts that are soaring through her head a mile a minute aren't there.

Drunken come ons make her think of being a teenager, groped by older boys who wouldn't take no for an answer. They make her think of Franny's ex-boyfriends and their sleazy, greasy fingers unwanted against her soft, young skin. They make her think of her brother, too drunk to even know his own name, and trying to cop a feel of his own sister's boob.

And yet, something about it makes her feel a way she doesn't quite understand.

Well, Nicky's cards are certainly out on the table now, anyway. In case her less than subtle advances in the restaurant that day weren't enough to go by, it's been confirmed in black and white.

Lorna knows she should feel angry, or violated, or sad that their friendship isn't what she thought it was, but she doesn't. If anything, she feels giddy. She feels like a pathetic teenager who's just been noticed for the first time by her crush. It's the same feeling that engrossed her that very first time she laid eyes on Christopher, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, the smile that tugged at his lips (but disappeared by their second 'date').

It's confusing though, because Nicky isn't Christopher. She isn't like the boys she chased around as a teenager. Lorna's always gone for _nice_ boys. The kind of boys she could take home to meet her parents (not that she ever did).

Not only is Nicky not one of those boys, but she isn't even _a boy_.

Lorna's spent her entire life planning the perfect future for herself. The walls of the bedroom she used to share with her sister, before the house got over-ridden with baby Frannies, is covered in wedding dress pictures and images of her ideal husband, carefully cut out from magazines and compiled lovingly into collage after collage of a fantasy that Lorna always intended to live out when the time came. The idea of someone like Nicky had never so much as crossed her mind.

She's not just a woman, she's a reckless one at that. People like Nicky don't settle down. The closest she's probably ever come to a soft-knit sweater is the ratty grey sweatshirt she sometimes wears around the house. As for the 'Morello test' Franny is always banging on about – their family's twisted little way of deciding whether someone is good enough to date one of them, which has directly resulted in one of her brother's knocking up not one but two of his teenage girlfriends, in case Franny's offspring weren't enough – she's not sure Nicky would stand much chance whether she were a woman or not. (Then again, at least she couldn't get Lorna pregnant).

The fact that she is trying to rationalize these unwanted thoughts and feelings, is, in itself, ridiculous.

She goes back to sleep in the hopes she won't think any more about it, but instead Nicky just invades her dreams.

Still, when Nicky calls in the morning, probably with a sore head and an apology, Lorna can't quite bring herself to answer the phone.

* * *

><p>It's two days before Lorna even answers her phone, and Nicky's already thought out a whole apology speech to leave in her voicemails (the third one, in fact) when Lorna picks up on the forth ring. She's so shocked to hear her voice, and not an automated message, that she almost forgets how to speak.<p>

"Hey," she croaks, eventually, running her fingers through her hair out of habit, "I wasn't expecting you to, uh, pick up... I had nothin' planned."

"Nicky Nichols, lost for words. That don't sound quite right."

Her tone is a lot more playful than Nicky expected, and it eases at least some of her concerns, allows her to flop down on her couch with the phone cradled to her ear, instead of pacing up and down the living room.

"You done playing then, Morello?" she says, chewing on the side of her mouth, another nervous habit.

"I'll have you know I was very busy. You ain't the only thing in my life," she says, but her tone says otherwise, and Nicky can't help but chuckle, silently relieved that things have gone somewhat back to normal.

"Look, the s word isn't really in my vocabulary-"

"Oh yeah? My voicemails tell me that isn't completely true."

Nicky shakes her head, but she's smiling, "ayyy, don't bust my balls over this, kid. I am though. You know me – I'm fucked up. I fuck things up. I think 5 minutes in Red's company probably told you more than enough about that."

"Sure, or the part where you were tossed out a car onto my front lawn."

"You don't even have a lawn, what are you talking about? I think you probably made that one up. I have no recollection of it at all."

Lorna laughs, and it's the best sound Nicky's heard all week.

"Look, I'm headin' over to Red's later. How about it? I'll treat you to one of those custard pastries you've been eyeing up?"

"Yeah? Okay. But I'm only comin' for the pastry," Lorna agrees, and Nicky can practically see the look on her face, all wide-eyed and faux innocence.

"You've got yourself a deal, kid."

* * *

><p>It's not difficult to know when Lorna is in date-mode. She has movie soundtracks blaring as she pulls clothes one after another out of her closet, lays them out on her bed, tries them on one at a time, spinning in the mirror to check it out from all angles.<p>

Franny's seen it a thousand times before.

Lorna stands in front of her full length mirror in a tight red dress, her hair pinned up, with just the right amount of it loosely curled down the back of her head, and a full face of make-up. She's wearing her signature pair of earrings, and the tacky charm bracelet her mom bought her for her 18th birthday.

"You think I look alright? This dress ain't too slutty?"

Franny laughs, sitting amongst piles of abandoned dresses and shoes, "since when did you give a fuck about looking slutty? You look great, Lorn. You always do. Who is this guy, anyway? I thought you and sweater guy ended things."

"_Christopher_ and I are finished, yes. We wanted different things. It wasn't working," Lorna glances at her over her shoulder, "you sure this dress looks good on my ass?"

"So, who is this new guy?" Franny presses, ignoring her.

Lorna turns, hands on her hips and glares at her sister, "it don't matter, okay? I don't need the Francine Morello seal of approval every time I go out on a date."

"Hey, hey, I'm just checkin' he's good enough for you. Be glad it's me and not pops!"

She has a point. Lorna sits down on the end of the bed and can't fight the dreamy smile that crosses her lips, "I met him by accident. He's completely different from Christopher. Much more... rugged."

"You ain't dating some kinda gang member are you, Lorn, cos I am not sending my baby sister out to some-"

"Franny! No! He's real sweet once you get to know him. Especially to me. Has a great sense of humor. Honestly, I could listen to him talk for days."

Franny smirks, "yeah? And hot? He must be hot, right?"

Lorna feels a blush rise to her cheeks as her sister tackles her, poking her in the ribs teasingly and Lorna can't fight the grin that lights up her face as she nods eagerly, "oh yeah, he's real hot."

* * *

><p>She changes her mind, decides she looks stupid. She peels out of the tight dress and into a baby pink jumpsuit with little white hearts all over, trades her high heels for a pair of converse. She wipes half the make-up off her face, and pulls her hair into a side ponytail, applies just a little lipstick. She avoids Franny as she sneaks out of the house, prays she'll be asleep by the time she gets back.<p>

Red's restaurant is at least an hour out, and Lorna has no money for a cab, so she settles into the front seat of the car she shares with her sister, adjusts the seat so she can reach the pedals.

At least she'll have an hour to think over what the hell she's doing, maybe get her brain a little less messed up by the time she has to greet Nicky.

* * *

><p>"What time do you call this? I thought you weren't gonna show. Gonna leave me over here with two sticky pastries and a fucking stupid look on my face," Nicky says, grinning widely as Lorna takes a seat across from her.<p>

Lorna rolls her eyes, "well, I did think about it, but I have been dreamin' of those pastries..." she reaches across for one and Nicky pulls it out away from her before she can grab it, "hey, don't be a tease!"

Shoving the pastry across the table, Nicky shrugs, watches Lorna immediately tuck in.

Lorna eats like a pig. She tears her pastry apart, licks the filling out, and shoves pieces into her mouth one after another without pausing for breath. Little flakes of pastry stick to her chin, and she swipes at them with one swift movement of her tongue, continuing to talk through a mouthful of food.

The worst part is that Nicky laps it up, cuts her own pastry in half and hands one half over to her, watching her eat with a lop-sided smirk. She should be disgusted, not entranced. But she isn't. Every single thing she does is so fucking adorable, that she doesn't even mind the spray of pastry crumbs that come flying out every time she opens her mouth to speak.

"I missed you, kid," Nicky says, and her voice is so oddly sincere that it catches Lorna off guard.

She swallows her mouthful and smiles, "Yeah, me too."


	3. Chapter 3

She can't pinpoint the moment she fell in love with her best friend, but she can remember it all too well, even if it was over a decade ago, even if she has had years of substance abuse between then and now. Her mind's good at blocking shit out – rough sex with people she doesn't remember the names of, being beat to a pulp by 'friends', lovers, people who she'd let herself fall for even though they were bad for her; the things that had shaped the person she's become, the hardened shell she hides inside of – but it's also good at keeping a hold of things she'd sooner forget, and _she_ is one of them. Fifteen year old Nicky Nichols, with her lion's mane of unruly hair that everyone made fun of, and the Kurt Cobain t-shirt that her mom (if the woman deserved that title) had tried to dispose of on three separate occasions. Fifteen year old Nicky who didn't fit in at school, had only one friend in the world, spent her evenings getting drunk and smoking cigarettes on her fire escape, pretending she might get caught and punished, but knowing no one cared enough to ever do either.

Fifteen year old Nicky who had fallen in love with her best (and only) friend, and proceeded to destroy their friendship as easily as pulling pages out of a book, one chapter at a time, until nothing but the broken, unreadable spine remained.

That had been the beginning of it all. The one rule of dykehood: don't fall in love with a straight girl. It was a rule Nicky had broken over and over and over again. Until, eventually, she'd made herself immune to it. Love, that is. She'd forced herself not to believe in it. _You only get one chance to break my heart. _Nah, even one's too many. Build a wall around it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Fuck anyone and everyone and don't consider the consequences. Don't let emotion come into it, because it'll just fuck you over like it has done before, time and time again.

So, she became this walking bundle of self-confidence, with a filthy mouth and the notches on her bedpost to match. Don't show emotion, don't feel things, because that's when it becomes dangerous. That's when you're forced to start _un-feeling _things, where the heroin comes in. Replace the drug with a sexy brunette, or a leggy blonde, or _anyone_ as long as they're yours to control and play with and toss aside when you're done, and they're satisfied.

(That's always been an important part of it. She's a giver. Yeah, she gets satisfaction from it, of course she does. It fuels the flames, but it also pacifies them. But she's a giver, she looks after those in need, yeah? She gives as much as she takes).

Lorna Morello breaks all the rules.

Lorna isn't interested. Lorna has a boyfriend. Lorna's a nice, normal(ish), straight girl who doesn't want to get tangled up in the fucked up, erratic life of a drug addict.

But Nicky can't stop herself.

She keeps telling herself it's that tribal instinct, that part of her that can't say no to a challenge, that keeps propelling her forward, full pelt. It's all just a game. She's never taken anything seriously, why would she start now? She flirts with every girl. That's what she does, who she is. Why should this one be any different? She makes these teasing little comments, presses herself ever so slightly too tight against Lorna's body, enjoys the flustered way her cheeks redden, her eyes averting. She likes the feel of those tiny hands pushing her forcefully away. It draws a smirk to her lips every damn time, as her eyes wander, taking in the stubborn expression on Lorna's face, the way her bottom lip juts out in the tiniest of pouts. It's a back and forth that Nicky thrives on. It isn't serious. It's a game.

It's not a game, and she's realising, all too quickly and terrifyingly, that it _is_ serious. Or at least it's getting that way.

* * *

><p>They continue this little back and forth they've had going on, and Lorna, try as she might, can't help but enjoy the way Nicky speaks to her, the way her eyes flicker sometimes, like she's undressing her with them. The corners of her mouth have a way of twitching into this smirk that drives her absolutely wild, even if she pretends it doesn't.<p>

Lorna doesn't want to address what any of it means, but she also doesn't want it to stop.

Visits to Red's restaurant have become so frequent that Lorna doesn't even bother letting Nicky know she's headed over there anymore. Ninety percent of the time, she's there anyway, leaning against the counter laughing with one of Red's sons, or sitting by the window with a cup of black coffee and her iPod. Even when she isn't there, Lorna enjoys being surrounded in the things that remind her of her, and she's even beginning to relax into conversation with the Russian woman who Nicky calls mom.

She bounces her way into the restaurant on a warm afternoon, in a summer dress, sunglasses balanced precariously on her head, and lands in a seat at an empty table. She peruses the menu even though she knows it by heart, and her mind is completely elsewhere when someone slides into the seat opposite her.

"Hey, do you come here often?" a familiar voice, but lower, growlier, says, and Lorna smiles widely, looking up. The smile is shortly replaced by a loud laugh that bubbles up out of her throat, that she can't quite suppress even as she pushes her hand over her face.

Nicky, her hair in a ponytail on the top of her head, is dressed... as a strawberry milkshake.

"Woah, way to deflate a girl's ego," she scowls, attempting to fold her arms across the large foam costume, but her lips are turned up in the smallest of smiles.

"I'm sorry," Lorna splutters, between giggles, "you just... why on earth are you wearing that?"

"Helping Ma with the business, ain't I?" she shrugs, and the whole costume moves with her, "look, I may or may not have lost a bet. Y'know, I think Kelis _may_ have been lying, because this outfit... isn't really bringing _anyone_ to our yard. As you can see," she gestures to the practically dead restaurant, "business is booming."

"Since when did you care about bringing boys to your yard?"

"Since we needed paying customers. As much as we value _your_ custom, you do tend to get half your pastries on the house."

Lorna smirks, "oh yeah? Whose fault is that?" she takes a moment to really drink in just how empty the restaurant is, the squeaky clean tables that look like they haven't been sat at all day, and her smile fades, "I guess I never noticed just how badly this place is struggling."

"It'll pick up. It always does," Nicky shrugs, attempting to rest her elbows on the table, but the costume making it impossible for her to reach, "how are you, anyway? It's been, what, a week? I was beginning to wonder if you'd fallen off the face of the earth."

Rolling her eyes, Lorna sits up straight, "I've told you before, you're not the only thing in my life, Nicky Nichols. I can't be on the phone to you every mornin', noon and night."

"Yeah, but you'd love to be, right?"

They continue with this light hearted conversation, teasing and circling the edge of something more, until Red calls Nicky back to the kitchen, and she heaves herself out of the booth, waddles away. And, for the first time, Lorna notices the pink and white striped tights that she's wearing underneath her costume, and has to press her hand so tightly to her mouth that she's biting it, to stifle the laugh threatening to escape.

Nicky tosses her a look over her shoulder, and disappears into the kitchen.

* * *

><p>"That girl is here all the time," Red comments, as Nicky, sans milkshake-costume, sits on the counter watching her peel potatoes.<p>

She kicks at the cupboard under her feet and scowls, feeling more and more like a teenager. She thinks maybe Red gets a kick out of it, her being the only girl. Not that she's remotely girly. In fact, she's cruder than both Red's boys put together. She's been smacked around the head and shooed from the kitchen more times than she can count for talking animatedly and graphically about her latest hook ups, using language no normal person would use in front of their mother. Nowadays, Red just wrinkles her nose, tosses her a disgusted look, but says nothing.

"What are you getting at, Ma?"

She tries to feign annoyance, but there's the tiniest of smirks lingering on her lips and the look on Red's face tells her she can read her like a book.

"She's very... nice," Red says, with caution, "she's good for you. A nice, normal girl to be around... a bit funny with the expressions... maybe not the smartest girl in the world... but sweet. You've done a lot worse."

Nicky lets out an exasperated sigh, rolls her eyes, "Lorna ain't like that. We're friends. You know what friends are, right? Those people you enjoy doing _nice_ _normal_ things with like watching TV, and going for a beer, and eating pizza, not their pussies,"

"Nicky, I wish you wouldn't use such vulgar language," Red says, but she's long since given up on changing Nicky's old habits, "and, eh, you're defensive behaviour, the body-language... I'm not so sure you are just 'friends'. Or am I reading it wrong?"

Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Nicky drops her gaze to the floor, shifts uncomfortably. Red always has this way of getting inside her head, knowing what she's thinking, how she's feeling, sometimes even before she does. She'd say it annoyed her, if it wasn't for the fact that most of the time, she could do with the advice, even if she isn't willing to admit it.

"Ma..."

"You want me to keep out of it, I'll keep out of it," she rubs her hands like she's washing them, holds them up palms out, "but you just remember it will be me picking up the pieces when it all goes wrong."

Nicky scowls, dropping the sheepishness, sitting up, stubborn as an ox, "since when? Since when have I ever put you in that situation, huh? I'm not one of your boys. I handle myself. I take care of myself. And Lorna and I are _friends_, period. You get that?"

Red nods, returns to her potatoes, but she's frowning, muttering in Russian, and when Nicky leaves the kitchen, she can't help but feel like she's exiting with her tail between her legs.

* * *

><p>She's still in a fucking bad mood when she gets back to her apartment building. She stomps her way up the stairs, her keys gripped tighter than necessary in her closed fist. She's so lost inside her own thoughts, that she almost bumps straight into someone, only narrowly misses. The someone is a hell of a lot taller than her, and her elbow almost catches Nicky's face, missing by about an inch. Even as the collision is avoided, the tall brunette spins on her heel, looking in as bad a mood as Nicky is, rage building behind her dark rimmed glasses.<p>

"You ever heard of watching where you're going?"

Nicky scoffs, raising a hand to run through her tangled hair, "oh, come on, I missed you by a mile."

It's only then that she takes in the woman's neatly curled hair, the tattoos up her arms, the all-black outfit, and realises where she recognises her from. She also can't help but notice the smudged mascara, the red eyes; tell-tale signs of crying.

"Eyy, I get it. You and the leggy blonde from 2 doors down have a fight? Maybe she's been sucking dicks on the side, or something? Great. Well don't take it out on me."

The brunette woman stares at her, narrows her eyes, "excuse me? Like you have any right to talk about her like that. Do you even know her? I'm going to go with no since you don't even know her _name_."

"I hit the nail on the head though, didn't I?" Nicky continues, and she doesn't even know why she's picking a fight with this hot near-stranger who she couldn't care less about. Maybe she's still reeling from her conversation with Red. Maybe it's because she text Lorna three times on the way home and she didn't reply once. Maybe she just hasn't used in too long and this is her body's way of getting pleasure now. Either way, she finds herself unable to just walk away.

"Fuck you," the woman says, eventually, turning, walking away from her, and Nicky pretends she doesn't check out her ass in the tight jeans she's wearing.

"Yeah? Fuck you too!" she calls back, before wrestling her front door open, and angrily slamming it behind her.

* * *

><p>It's not that Lorna likes going to the movies alone, it's just that she never has anybody to go with. Franny's always busy with the kids, and she wouldn't dream of going with her dad, or the boys. She has basically no friends worth mentioning. So, she goes alone.<p>

Or, she did.

Watching a movie isn't exactly a thing she and Nicky _don't do,_ but there's still something different about asking her to go with her to the theater to see something. It feels too date-like, too forward. She has this perfect little image of Nicky putting her arm around her, her sinking into her touch, them sharing a box of popcorn and a slurpie, Lorna hiding her face in Nicky's hair when there's a scary part.

In reality, they usually sit on separate couches in Nicky's living room, and Lorna doesn't understand half the movies Nicky picks out, and Nicky won't watch any of the movies Lorna chooses. They spend most of their time bickering (without exception, Lorna always says something stupid that Nicky corrects her on, and Lorna won't back down even when she realises she's wrong) and throwing popcorn at each other, and almost always, Lorna winds up falling asleep before the movie ends.

Lately, she's even woken up to a blanket draped across her. She thinks she might have even felt Nicky's lips on her forehead once or twice, but that's probably just a dream; another fantasy of hers that isn't true.

Nicky just wants to have sex. There's no use in Lorna imagining any other life for them together, because Nicky isn't that kind of a girl.

Still, when she awkwardly asks her to go see a movie one Friday night, a part of her still hopes for that perfect little night on the back row that she's dreamt of.

She shouldn't be surprised when Nicky practically laughs in her face.

"Okay, first of all? A Grease sing-a-long? You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me, yeah?"

Lorna presses her lips together, stands on the tips of her toes, tries to look intimidating, knows it doesn't work.

"Yeah? And what's wrong with _Grease_?! It's a timeless classic," Lorna bites out, but she can already see the look of amusement in Nicky's eyes, that she isn't taking her seriously.

"Sure, if you like that kind of lovey dovey singing crap. And, just for the record, I do not sing."

She smirks at that, twists her bright red lips into a grin as she folds her arms, "oh yeah? What was that in the shower the other night then? Cos, to me, it sounded a hell of a lot like you giving your best Beyonce-"

"It was Fleetwood Mac," Nicky snaps, and she glares at her, "and you heard nothin'"

"Oh, come off it, Nichols... it'll be fun. You, me, a box of popcorn, Olivia Newton-John in a skin-tight catsuit..."

Lorna's sing-song voice softens Nicky's resolve as it always does, and when Lorna pokes her in the ribs, she even cracks a small smile.

"Okay. Fine. But you're payin'. And I am _not_ puttin' up with your cat-wailing all night, so I suggest we hit up the _regular_ version, not the fuckin' sing-a-long."

It's a compromise, and Lorna will take that.

* * *

><p>Nicky finds this niche little movie theater in a basement of some hipster chic bar that serves drinks in jam jars, and sells movie-themed cocktails; basically the last place on earth you would ever find her. Well, 'movie theater' might be over-selling it; it's a room of chairs with a pull down screen and a projector. But it's kind of cute, and it's the kind of place Lorna loves so she goes against her word, and books the tickets herself.<p>

Rather than watch the movie out loud, this place hands out headphones, and you sit there watching the thing in silence with a bucket of organic popcorn, and an over-priced drink in your hand. When they arrive – slightly late because they argued about directions even though Lorna's never even been here – there's only one set of headphones left, so they have to share.

Nicky grumbles as they take their seats, having missed the first ten minutes (Lorna claims it's the boring part, but Nicky – though she'll never _ever_ admit it – has always had a soft spot for Summer Nights), mutters angrily about having to share headphones, but ultimately, enjoys the fact Lorna has to sit practically on her lap for them to share. Her body feels warm tucked against her side, and Nicky can't think of a single time she's felt more comfortable than here, wrapped around the girl she's rapidly falling for, watching a cheesy musical, sharing a singular set of headphones and a _Pink Panther Colada_.

Lorna falls asleep somewhere around Hopelessly Devoted, and wakes up annoyed that she's missed half the movie. Her head's on Nicky's shoulder, and Nicky's arm is tight around her waist. It takes her a moment to notice that rather than watch the screen, Nicky's watching her, and when their eyes meet, she can't help but smile, fighting back the blush that's creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

"You missed the dumb song with the dancing hotdog," Nicky whispers, smirking.

Lorna just smiles, turns her attention back to the screen, slides her headphone back into her ear, and leans back on Nicky's shoulder, her fingers circling those on the hand that dangles between them.

* * *

><p>The next time Nicky bumps into the tall brunette with the rose tattoo, it's in a bar with a bunch of guys she recognises as being Manny's friends. She raises her eyebrows, watches the curve of the woman's back as she leans against the pool table, knocks two striped balls in with one shot. Her arms flex, and she moves around the table, leans across, cleavage pressed tight against the blue felted top, and takes her next shot. Her eyes meet Nicky's just as her ball misses its pocket.<p>

"You come to gloat some more about my cock-sucking ex-girlfriend?" she asks, moments later, having abandoned the game for a trip to the bar.

Nicky smirks, runs her fingers around the rim of her glass of scotch, "_ex_-girlfriend? So I was right?"

"It's complicated."

_Isn't it always_, Nicky thinks. She pats the stool next to her, watches the brunette carefully as she contemplates joining her.

"Alex," she says, after a beat.

"Nicky."

* * *

><p>She's not obsessed. She isn't. It isn't obsession, because she manages to find other things to do, other things to take up her time, and her mind.<p>

It's different from the others. It is. _She_ is.

Still, Lorna can't help but want to be around her, to want to spend time in Nicky's company, to want to feel the warmth of her hand on her thigh, in her hair, cupping her face. They've become very affectionate but that's _normal_ for friends. It is. She wouldn't know because she doesn't exactly have many friends, but it's normal on the television, and it's normal between her and Nicky.

Normal normal normal.

Friends.

Lorna hates herself when she gets like this. She hasn't ever actually _got like this_ per say – it's usually different – but she still hates it. She's still filled with this self-loathing that makes her want to squeeze her eyes closed and never open them again. She thinks she could easily drown in her own thoughts. Never get out of bed again.

She takes the car. They don't have plans, but she wants to make plans, and Nicky isn't answering her phone. So, she takes the car, and she drives to Nicky's apartment block.

It's dark out, and cold. Lorna snatches a coat on the way out, wraps a scarf around her neck, blows on her cold hands before she starts driving. The car is freezing and misted up, but she doesn't wait for the windows to clear.

By the time she's halfway there, she's wondering what she's doing, where she's going, why she's being so clingy. But it's too late to turn back, now. And besides, Nicky's never turned her away before. A night of cold pizza and a black and white movie, and curling up on Nicky's couch to sleep for the night will sort her out. She knows it.

When she arrives at Nicky's apartment, she parks her car, checks her make-up in the rearview mirror, and sheds her ridiculous scarf. She reaches the right floor, the right door number, and she knocks, waits. There's no answer, so she knocks again. She checks her phone, thinks about calling Nicky's number, decides she must be out, busy, doesn't bother.

Any normal person would turn away and drive home, realise that they can't just arrive at someone's door with no warning and expect to be let in. But Lorna doesn't. Lorna sits on the steps by Nicky's door, and waits.

And waits. And waits and waits and waits.

It's at least an hour later when she hears muffled laughter and uneven foot steps on the stair well. She stands from her position on one flight of stairs, and looks down the others.

The next floor down has a faulty light. It's been like it for weeks but no one can be bothered to fix it, or complain about it until someone else fixes it, so it's just faulty. One side doesn't work at all, and the other flickers, shedding only a faint light across the landing visible from the stairwell. Lorna peers down just as she hears something hit the floor, followed by more laughter, and then another sound, one that sounds a lot like a moan. Her cheeks flushing red, she backs away, slinks down against the wall again.

"Holy shit these jeans are tight. How the fuck did you even get these on?"

"I don't care—- oh _fuck_, just get them off of me,"

Lorna's heart leaps into her throat as she struggles back to her feet, stares down into the darkness, and eventually recognises a bush of messy golden-brown hair, along with several glimpses of bare flesh. She hears more moans, watches as Nicky flings someone else's bra behind her, buries her face in someone else's body.

_That's enough_, Lorna thinks, choking back tears. She squeezes her eyes closed, drags herself away from that stairwell, and curls up in a ball at the bottom of the other set of stairs. She was stupid to ever think Nicky might want someone like her. She can have whoever she wants.

* * *

><p>"Did you hear something?" Nicky whispers, holding her hand over Alex's face. She stills her hand between the girl's legs, peers around her. It's mostly dark down here, but she can see the light of the floor above.<p>

"No," Alex moans against her hand, "please..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Don't worry... no one hates me as much as I hate me right now.


End file.
